


who is the monster and who is the man

by captainhurricane



Category: Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in a way, he always knew. (spoilers up until 1x13)</p>
            </blockquote>





	who is the monster and who is the man

**Author's Note:**

> yes, I am incapable of writing 1000 words. I'm honestly intimidated about the thought of writing long fics since my plot-skills are next to zero. (bad thing to have when you want to be a writer lmao) 
> 
> also this fic is not that shippy imo.

They look at him like worshipping, their faces young and fresh, minds clear and simple: graduate with good grades, get a job, get a husband or a wife, maybe a dog and two kids and then retire with only the minimal amount of trauma. the nightmares will pass for them, the stench of dead bodies something to get used to, something they will not blink at in a few years time. In a way Will hates them (as much as Will Graham is capable of hate, at least on his own- without the help of the moments when he closes his eyes and the pendulum swings, wiping away the present and bringing on the past). 

One day he blinks and the study hall is empty. The clock is three hours ahead than when Will last looked at it. 

Will blinks, rubs his eyes. He doesn’t pay attention to the way his fingers twitch as he reaches for the glasses he doesn’t really need right now. 

* 

Laughing is a chore, the sound like dry leaves under a heel during the dying days of autumn. Smiling twitches Will’s face into an expression that makes him want to curl himself into a fetal position and rock himself to sleep; or maybe stick his fingers into his ears and talk aloud to drown away the sound of hooves. 

Will Graham doesn’t trust Hannibal Lecter to make it better. That’s not it. Hannibal is no friend, even if his hand on Will’s shoulder is large and its warmth is soaking through Will’s sweater. Yet Will can’t exactly push him away or tell him exactly what’s wrong (have you ever woken up and felt you’re drowning? Have you ever woken up without knowledge of who you are? Have you ever seen things that aren't there? Have you ever been more than what you are?)

Hannibal Lecter smiles like Will imagines the devil would; thin lips stretching, just a hint of white teeth, his eyes cold and dead like a shark’s. Will wonders about the skeletons in his closet- at least until the point where his own come to play, when the pendulum beneath his eyelids starts deteriorating and his moments of brightness, of murderers’ minds come bleeding into the reality that his hands touch. After that, it's a little hard to see the dark bleeding from underneath Hannibal's skin, the nightmare obscuring Will's vision.

There is a moment when Hannibal Lecter is an anchor, just a man with impeccable suits and smoothness to him, his jagged edges hidden beneath an accent that softens his rough English just enough for him to seem trustworthy. Will doesn’t look him in the eyes at first (he never does) and when he does, it’s not long. Hannibal stares, his knife sharp enough to penetrate Will’s armour making Will withdraw, look down on that friendly expression and wonder if it's alright to trust someone who has such a clean office, the walls bloodred and everything right where they should be.

*

Hannibal speaks of God and Will’s jaw clenches. If it’s agony or happiness, he cannot say. He didn't feel like a God when his shots made the man with a father's face fall. He felt like an animal. 

Hannibal doesn’t bat an eyelash to the pictures of gruesome crime scenes and Will blinks at him, wonders if the shadow he sees around Hannibal is just his imagination. 

*

In a way Will should have seen it coming. In a way he should have been certain of his doubts about Hannibal being genuine, about his worrying words being just that: the words of a friend to a friend or a psychiatrist to a patient. 

The walls of Hannibal’s office are the colour of blood. Will sniffs and thinks that maybe the office smells like it too. All it takes is for him to blink and imagine, see how the blood would look like, splashed on the well-organized bookshelves, on the floors, on the walls. On Hannibal’s long fingers and the mouth that only knows how to smile without real joy. 

In a way Will should have seen it coming. Hannibal smiles at him through the prison-bars, his face flickering into the dark figure from Will’s waking dreams. 

"Hello Will," Hannibal murmurs and really, Will should reach to him and scream what are you, what are you! Yet Will can’t because when it comes to Hannibal Lecter, there’s always been an armour. A wall to be climbed. A line to be crossed; from victim to killer. 

"Hannibal." Will knows his own face must be twisting into something resembling a smile. His mind has never been clearer. The nightmare that has slept beneath Hannibal’s skin is bursting out, through the cracks of the perfect psychiatrist, through the two rows of white teeth. 

Will doesn’t dare to close his eyes, to see the broken pendulum or the girl bleeding on the antlers, to drift back into the waking dream. There is no light here, however. And in a way Will Graham wonders if there ever was.


End file.
